


The Adventures of Oscar and Undead

by Trefoil_9



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, More tags to be added, OSCAR OSCAR OSCAR IS GREAT, Wanderer class chosen undead, Why are there not more Oscar tags I am displeased, because Dark Souls needs more Oscar in it, do I tag major character death if they come back to life afterward??, ha ha I stole that tag from my other main fandom, rating might be changed due to eventual dismemberment idk, selectively mute Chosen Undead, semi-silent Chosen Undead, there's always the chance they won't come back right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trefoil_9/pseuds/Trefoil_9
Summary: In which a remarkably stubborn Chosen Undead refuses to accept Oscar's despair, drags him to the nearest bonfire, makes him so angry that he forgets to go hollow and consequently gains a companion on their dangerous journey. A little humor, a standard Soulsborne serving of pain, a lot of friendship. Some very human guilt for Oscar and a lot of amnesia for Undead.





	1. Birdnapped

Surprisingly, he wasn’t dead. He could still see the sky above him, a silvery haze beyond the hole he’d fallen through.

He rolled his head to the side to look down at his sword arm, and found that the sword was still gripped in his hand. That comforted him a little. It was a good sword, it had served him well. He was glad it was still with him. He turned his head back, trying to settle it into a marginally more comfortable position, but that didn’t seem possible at the moment, so he gave up and remained as he was, draped over the pieces of collapsed ceiling that had fallen with him.

His back was broken, possibly in more than one place, and he was trying not to think the rest of his bones—at least several ribs, breathing was torture and brought blood to his mouth. He focused on enduring it, breath after slow breath, and did not reach for the Estus flasks stowed at his belt. He had failed in his mission, and already he felt his mind slipping from his grasp. He would soon be hollow. No point in prolonging the experience.

Oscar had come to the Asylum on purpose, unlike so many who were brought against their wills. In the past years Astora had followed the lead of other nations in rounding up their known Undead and isolating them there, and Oscar had felt it was a kind of divine justice when the Darksign appeared on his own body. He’d helped in gathering up the Undead—most of them peaceful, some lashing out in terror and despair, some hollowing on the journey, very few treated with human respect. He’d separated a child, surely no more than five, from her family, stepping in to do it himself when one of the soldiers threatened violence on the understandably distraught parents. She’d clung to him desperately--she’d probably been taught that knights were good people and could be trusted.  
He had kept his visor down for the rest of the day. Being a knight was all he’d ever been and wanted to be, but the Asylum seemed a dark fate for anyone, especially humans innocent of wrongdoing and in full possession of their faculties. But, then, there were the kingdoms of Balder and Berenike, reduced to empty ruins in the control of the rampant Undead, all humans fled far away or killed. No one wanted their land to become the third Balder. He’d told himself this, and half-convinced himself that he stayed for loyalty, and not because he was too weak to leave. When he fell into a three-day fever and awoke with the knotted darkness across his heart, his resolve shattered, and he felt it was only what he deserved. So here he had come—not without hope, for there was still the prophecy. True, the prophecy which had sent the elite knights of Berenike and Balder into Lordran, never to return, but what other options did he have?

Well, he’d tried. Better than staying to go hollow at home, where he’d put others in danger. This place was perfect. The cell he’d fallen into didn’t even have a working door, the cave-in had buried it. All he had to do was wait for the inevitable.

He deserved this.

He looked up at the sky through the slits in his visor.

Out in the Asylum there was uneasy silence. He could hear a distant thumping, probably the footsteps of the demon that had attacked him on the roof. It sounded like it had moved down to his level. Then there was a new sound, a rumble. Perhaps a trap had activated. Sure enough, there was a sharp cry from beyond the wall, and a few moments later, a boulder smashed through the wall.  
With the consistent destruction added to the general dilapidation of the place, Oscar was surprised the Asylum functioned as a prison, and wasn’t leaking hollows at the seams.

He heard footsteps approaching his room, and then a shape appeared in the makeshift doorway.

Oscar wondered if he were still human enough for the Hollows to attack. Probably so. Lovely. Having a Hollow wander in and start whaling on his already broken body to make his passing more painful was just about what he should have expected in this place. He wondered if he had the strength to remove his helmet and make it easier for them to kill him. Or...  
They weren’t attacking. They were standing upright, one hand resting on the wall beside them, looking towards him with what he thought was an intelligent look, almost one of recognition. They were dressed in worn, but sturdy clothes, a short furred capelet around their shoulders. Another moment and he recognized them.  
“Oh, you... you’re no Hollow. Thank goodness.”  
It was the Undead he’d thrown a key to from the roof. They had seemed more awake than the others.  
They came closer and knelt beside him, and he saw strings of dark hair escaping from a torn hood. Their appearance was so decayed that he couldn’t begin to guess at age or gender, but their eyes were human. Grey. The color of rain.  
“I wish to ask something of you.”  
They nodded, and he told them of the saying, and the ringing of the bells. They listened carefully, head cocked to one side. He felt some hope.  
It was growing harder to breathe. He spaced his words carefully, focusing on remaining lucid for a few more moments, even as the world started to swim. Dark spaces blurred his vision.  
“One more thing... Here, take this...”  
The Undead looked curiously at the flasks and tried one. They appeared not to have had experience with Estus flasks before; their eyes widened as light streamed from their body, healing their wounds. They stood up a little straighter and examined the flasks with appreciation.  
“An undead favorite,” Oscar chuckled, then coughed, wincing. A bit of blood spattered from his visor onto his surcoat. The Undead turned towards him, then held out one of the filled flasks.  
“No, I... I told you, I’m finished.” The Undead frowned in confusion. “It’s no use, I’ll only go Hollow. Keep it. H.. Here. This will... let you out.”  
He unhooked the gate key which he’d never had the chance to use from his belt and held it towards them. They slapped his hand down and poked him with the flask.  
“What... Please, don’t waste it on me.... I told you...” They were trying to take his helmet off. “Just take the key! Leave this place...” he was interrupted by blood filling his throat, and stopped to cough it up.  The Undead got the buckle of his helmet undone and gently lifted it from his head, the visor dripping. Oscar’s head fell back against the rubble and he struggled to breathe. The Undead hovered above him, eyes fixed on his face. Slowly they set the helmet down to the side and slid a hand behind his head, supporting it. Oscar lifted the key again and they blocked him with the Estus flask. Oscar sighed.  
“If I take it... will you take the key...?”  
The Undead nodded.  
“Alright.”  
They sat down beside him and tried to lift him gently to a sitting position. He did give them credit for trying. But the edges of bones he hadn’t even realized were broken rubbed together as soon as they moved him and he gave a sharp cry, then clamped his teeth together to keep from doing it again. The Undead got an arm solidly around his shoulders and remained as still as possible. Oscar was gasping from pain, and the Undead waited for him to catch his breath before tilting the flask to his mouth.  
Oscar, who had been in a near-faint, became aware that his body was wrapped in light. He blinked, clearing his sight. The Undead gave him another flask. He’d only agreed to one but wasn’t in much of a position to argue, so he took it. This time he could feel it, the bracing, tingling warmth of the flame racing through his body and soothing away his wounds. He could feel his legs again. He tentatively adjusted his position on the rubble—yes, he could move. He was still in pain, but he wasn’t dying anymore.  
The Undead sighed, in relief he thought, resting a hand on his chest. It must have been unpleasant to watch his writhing. But Oscar was a little surprised—and a little touched—to think that in the depths of the Asylum, amidst so much darkness and death, this Undead, barely clinging to their sanity, cared enough about life to pity someone else’s suffering.  
“Thank you,” said Oscar. “You have a kind heart. But you haven’t saved me. You should go now. I wouldn’t want to harm you after—I lose myself.”  
The Undead patted his chest and didn’t move.  
Oscar discovered that he was healed enough to feel emotions other than an overwhelming sense of doom. He was definitely feeling irritation.  
“You’re being foolish. Take the key, we made an agreement.”  
The Undead picked up the key and buttoned it safely into a belt bag. Then they stood—pulling Oscar up with them, one arm still wrapped around him. Oscar grunted, more in surprise than pain, though there was certainly both.  
“What—what are you doing.”  
The Undead started walking, supporting Oscar and dragging him along.  
“...No. Don’t try to take me with you. Please. You’ll only endanger yourself!” Another two steps. “Do you want to watch me go hollow? Leave me alone, where I can’t do any damage! I don’t want to harm you!”  
The Undead paused—but it was only to grab Oscar’s arm, which had been flopping against their back, and pull it around their shoulders; then, better balanced, they continued on. Oscar groaned.  
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but please, leave me.”  
No response. Of course. Oscar was beginning to think they were mute.

Down another corridor, they found a bonfire. The Undead laid him down beside it, then slumped down on the opposite side of the fire to rest.  
“Please kill me,” said Oscar, peevishly. Being dragged around hadn’t helped the pain level, though he was feeling steadily better, which also annoyed him. If he went hollow right next to the bonfire that made it an unsafe place.  
The Undead stretched, set the emptied flasks in the fire to refill and handed him one of the still-filled ones.  
“You’ve been listening to what I’m saying and you still want to heal me?”  
“Mm.”  
“Okay, fine, if it’ll make you happy. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”  
Then again, why had he bothered to free someone who was nearly hollow? He’d commiserated with them—he knew many Undead who weren’t even close to hollowing were locked away to rot here, not because they were a danger to society but because of fear that they would eventually become one. But he’d just thrown them the key, they had let themselves out. Obviously they thought they could handle it. But he knew, he knew he was going, and they wouldn’t listen to him...  
He was feeling slightly better actually? A bit? He thought about it. He felt more angry than anything else, really.  
He drank from the flask and felt a rush of heat soothe away more of his wounds. He could probably stand on his own now. Which was inconvenient, as he was trying to die.  
“What are your plans now?” he asked. The half-hollow looked at him across the fire and shrugged.  
“I believe there’s a way out through that door over there.” Maybe he could get rid of them before he went hollow.  
The Undead looked at the heavy doorway and frowned.  
“That is, if...” Oscar listened to the constant sounds of heavy, heavy footsteps. They were much louder, and they seemed to be coming from that direction. “Ah. Is that where the demon’s taken to walking?”  
They nodded. They’d seen it. Oscar sighed.  
“Well. Perhaps we can wait for it to go away.” It was unlikely, but perhaps not impossible. If they waited long enough.  
He closed his eyes.  
A few moments passed, then he heard the Undead take a deep breath and stand. He watched them collect the filled flasks and settle their sword, a curved scimitar, in their right hand and a battered leather shield in their left.  
“...You’re going to fight it.” They started for the arch. What advice could he give him? Don’t get smashed like I did? “...It’s very big.” They glanced back at him, then turned and went through the door they’d come in by. He appreciated them not flinging the main doors open and antagonizing the demon while he was still lying right there on the floor. Perhaps they were hoping to find another entrance on the second level.  
Oscar listened to the rhythmic pound of its steps, falling into a kind of trance. When it stopped moving he felt a sudden spike of fear.  
Then he heard it roar in pain. The Undead had found a way down.  
For a moment he allowed himself to hope that they would succeed where he had failed; it sounded like they’d managed to surprise it. But then he heard a deafening crash which sent tremors through the stone beneath his head and up into his jaw. The hammer. With a sickened, sinking feeling he remembered how hard it hit.  
It hit again, then again. One saving grace was that the demon was rather stupid, and its blows were not skillfully aimed. But considering their reach, they didn’t need to be; the sweep covered half the ground in front of the creature.  
A sharp scream reached him. There were a few more seconds of thrashing around, then the demon quieted, and resumed its steady pacing.  
Oscar waited. After a while the bonfire flared and the Undead reappeared, breathing hard, eyes wide with remembered pain.  
“Sorry,” said Oscar.  
They looked at him and their expression hardened. They took their weapons and stood.  
Oscar watched them return through the same door with a slight sense of awe. They’d just been outright killed and it had barely phased them.  
Again, the demon roared in pain and began beating with the hammer. It took a little bit longer for the Undead to reappear this time. They rested for a few brief minutes, then went back. And a third time they reappeared at the bonfire.  
He was impressed by their unwavering determination—their ability to push through, unlike so many Undead who hollowed rapidly, feeling nothing but the pain of life, the fear of death, and the heat of flame barring release from either one in a useless and unknowable cycle. This one wouldn’t let the pain and despair rule them, they shook it off and kept fighting.  
They reappeared again. This time they took a longer rest, and he thought he saw defeat in their eyes, but when they returned through the door yet again he decided that it was desperation. How long would they keep this up against such an enemy?  
They reappeared, and for the fifth time they took a brief rest and returned through the same door. They were unrelenting.  
Oscar lay, feeling the crash of the hammer throb through his recently mended bones, and waited for the Undead to reappear at the fire. For a few minutes, they did not. They were learning how to avoid the demon’s attacks. It had already been weakened, they must be close to defeating it.  
Suddenly he made his decision, one that he hadn’t realized he’d been debating. If these were his last moments he might as well spend them honorably instead of lying in a heap on the floor waiting for the darkness to come. He pushed himself up on his elbows, hissing as his back cramped, then rolled himself over and shifted up onto his feet. He could stand. Why, exactly, had his brilliant self refused more estus? He’d had an idea that his physical state at death would make a difference as to how strong a hollow he became, but he didn’t know that for sure. He set off through the door the Undead had taken, moving as quickly as he could force himself to. Up the stairs. More stairs, and he heard sounds of fighting from the courtyard, now below him. He walked past the bodies of several hollows and to an open archway hanging in space above the courtyard.  
There was a flash of movement below as the Undead rolled away from the demon, which stepped backwards, looking around for them. It was directly under the archway.  
Oscar realized he wouldn’t get another chance like this and forced himself over the edge before he could think about what a horrible, horrible decision this was. He dropped straight down and drove the point of his sword into the demon’s back with all the force of his fall. It stiffened and bellowed, and even as he frantically tried to free his sword it collapsed under him, flinging him facedown on the pavement. The force of the blow stunned him for a few seconds. When he recovered he scrambled up to his knees, looking around, trying to see where the hammer would fall from next.  
It was lying on the ground in the far corner. He looked over at the motionless body of the demon, sprawled on the floor. The Undead sprinted around their tail and pulled him up to his feet. He clasped their shoulders.  
“You did it,” he said, still half-expecting the dead demon to get a second wind and jump up again. They shook their head, grinning with the rush of victory, and threw their arms around him. His armor chinked lightly. He returned the hug with a startled wheeze, a little surprised at how tightly they clung to each other. They were alive. He felt he could laugh, maybe cry, maybe a little of both. He tried to calm himself. It was over now, thanks to the nameless Undead, and the door was right there.  
They shifted their position to support him and pulled him towards the door. He let his arm rest across their shoulders.

The air outside was cold in his lungs, and his breath smoked against his visor. Half-melted sheets of snow lay on the ground, but the ruins were dotted with flowers. The Undead dragged him up the slope towards the lookout.  
As they approached his heart fell. There was no way down that he could see, but this was the right way, wasn’t it? Perhaps they would see the path more clearly from the lookout. In any case, it would be a long journey.  
But then, as they reached the edge, a huge black bird swept up from under the lookout with a horrible shriek like the sounds of a million nightmares. Oscar gasped and pushed the Undead down, out of the way, just before the massive talons of the bird closed around him and the ground was snatched away. He gave a strangled cry, then, looking down, he saw the Undead grabbing uselessly for him as he was whirled off into the air.  
“I’m fine!” he shouted back, hoping he didn’t throw up. “This is fine!”  
He'd just reappear at the fire if he died, and.... perhaps, perhaps he could pull through this time? He was feeling stronger. He just hoped the bird didn’t try to eat him first.  
It was still flapping along steadily, the Asylum falling into the distance; he’d never before realized just how massive the place was. His Undead companion was a thin black line balanced on the very edge of the lookout. He twisted his head around and saw that they were headed for the mountains. The bird was certainly taking him a long way, he’d thought the nest would be nearby. Then, as they passed over the lowest peaks, he suddenly remembered. Lordran lay here, somewhere, over these mountains that few could cross. Perhaps this was the right way after all? His heart beat fast, now with anticipation rather than fear. Mist curled around them, mountains appeared and disappeared from view. Then, all at once, they were in clear air and descending towards a city of stone built into the side of the mountain.


	2. Reunion

The bird dumped him unceremoniously on the ground and swooped away. He fell to one knee, then stood, looking cautiously around. He was standing on the grassy, ruined floor of an ancient tower, alone except for the bonfire crackling in the center of the circle and a human-looking man clad only in silvery mail sitting on a mossy bench directly across from him.

“Oh, gods,” he grunted. Oscar ripped off his helmet to see more clearly. “Another of you, eh? Well, youlook to be in reasonably good shape. Oh for—don’t tell me you came here on pilgrimage?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” said Oscar, striding forwards. Dislike for the gloomy man had momentarily eclipsed concern for his Undead friend at the asylum and curiosity as to his surroundings. “I am Oscar of Astora, and you are?”

The man laughed. It was a tired, limp laugh, like a wet rag being weakly shaken. It gave Oscar the same creepy feeling that rats did.

“I am no one, and neither are you, here. Cast aside your pride, foolhardy knight.”

“All I did was introduce myself,” Oscar pointed out, liking the man less by the second.

“I know your kind,” the man continued, his voice quivering and breaking with every word as if he couldn’t be bothered to put any effort into shaping his sentences. “You’ll rush in like all the rest, eager to destroy and become heroes, and find only death and emptiness. Then, a few days from now, or a few weeks, months if you’re strong, some new fool will find you hollowed on the steps of the cathedral and have to cut his way through you, only to meet your same fate.”

“Thanks,” said Oscar. “Any advice?”

The man sighed loudly. “You are a fool, and any advice I give will likely go unheeded.”

“My friend,” said Oscar in a not especially friendly tone, “You have known me for all of a few minutes.”

The man looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “I may have some information of use. Allow me to seek to recall it.”

Oscar raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. The man gazed at him with what Oscar interpreted as a mocking expression. His face was sunken, with deep, dark pits around his eyes, but the eyes and skin were human, though they looked much the worse for wear. He looked half-starved, and his mail glinted faintly through an uneven coating of mud and grime that hadn’t been wiped off.

Oscar waited for ten minutes, by which point he was certain that he was merely having a staring contest with a cantankerous old fool who meant to toy with him. Neither of them had blinked in perhaps four minutes, and his eyes felt dry as parchment, but he was Undead. He doubted that he really needed to blink.

“You are infuriatingly persistent,” said the man in the same disgusting, wavering voice. He did not blink. Neither did Oscar.

“It was you who suggested I wait,” said Oscar. “And I have been waiting, for some time.”

“Oh, and what are you going to do if I don’t indulge you? Kill me?” sneered the man.

Oscar picked him up by the front of his mail shirt and held him against the wall. The man hung from his hands like a drowned rat and made no effort to escape.

“You’re starting to make me consider it. Do you have a death wish?”

“Everyone goes hollow in this place, sooner or later. Kill me, I implore you, it will shorten the suffering of awareness.”

“For the love of the gods, you really are something.”

Oscar started to lower him back onto his bench, deciding not to bother with him anymore. It wasn’t worth it, and besides, the man was human, more or less. In a land such as this, that counted for... something. But his defeatist attitude infuriated Oscar to an extent that surprised him. Perhaps because, so recently, he himself had been much the same. But now he wanted to live.

Behind him, there was a rushing sound followed by a cry and a thud. He dropped the man, who gave a peevish ‘ouch’ as he hit the bench, and turned in time to see the Undead roll head-over-heels, nearly into the fire. They scrambled to their feet as the crow swooped away.

“Undead, you made it!” Shouted Oscar, immensely relieved to see that the bird had brought them both. The Undead leapt up and sprinted straight at him without responding, and momentarily he was afraid—could they have gone hollow in the short time they’d been apart? They were not brandishing their weapon—

They flung out their arms and slammed into him, clutching him tight around the chest. He stumbled and sat down hard on the ground, then laughed at a sudden joy that flowed through him like sunlight, like the healing warmth of the mystical fire. “It’s good to see you, too,” he said, clapping a hand to their back.

Someone cared about him. For what felt like ages, he’d known that anyone who cared about him was far, far away, back in Astora, and that he would never see them again. But now he had a friend, a fellow Undead who could journey with him in this forsaken land. He leaned his forehead against their lowered hood gratefully, wondering if he would ever have the words to communicate this to them.

“Oh, eugh, disgusting,” said the man in mail, outright cringing away from them, tucking up his legs and shuffling backwards against the wall. “Go make your saccharine displays somewhere else.”

Oscar remembered all at once how much he hated this man. He tried not to think about it.

The Undead turned to look up at the man questioningly.

“Ah, yes, a friendly fellow isn’t he?” said Oscar, standing, pulling them up with them. He draped an arm around their shoulders, partially because he was glad they were with him but partially to annoy the man, who scowled up at them. The Undead waved awkwardly.

“Well, you seem nicer, anyway.”

“Why?!” said Oscar.

The man simply grunted at him, then turned his attention to the Undead, and his voice softened. “Look at you, you’re nearly hollow. But you’re still holding on, I can see it in your eyes. You think there’s some way to restore your humanity, eh? No, don’t look at me like that. Surely, deep down, you were always hoping. That’s why you’re here, not hollowed back at the Asylum.” The Undead was looking at him in utter confusion. “Well, there are a few ways, none permanent; you’ll never be free of the curse, it will always creep back and finally, utterly consume you.” Oscar restrained himself from saying something snide, the man was finally talking, no need to mess this up. “But there are ways to get humanity back, pillage it if you will; your own is gone, but you can steal it from others. Collect it bit by bit from corpses, or you can butter up a cleric, and get yourself summoned. And the quickest way, although I'd never do it, is to kill a healthy Undead, and pillage its humanity. Coveting thy neighbour is only human, after all!” Again that horrible, limp laugh. The Undead cocked their head and waited for him to stop. “Humanity, surely you know what it looks like, surely you’d recognize it. The little black shards, edged with light. They hover sometimes around corpses of those who were better off than we.”

The Undead bowed slightly.

“You are welcome. It’s not much to go on, but at least you’re polite. Unlike your friend here. He tried to choke me.”

“You were toying with me,” said Oscar, “But in retrospect I agree that it was unnecessary and unreasonable.” He took a moment to steel himself. Whatever else he might be, the man was human, not a monster. Humans were rare here, they should be lucky to count this one as a friend, or... non-enemy. And besides, Oscar was sworn to hate no man without just cause. He went down on one knee. “Will you forgive me?”

The man blinked at him, then laughed.

“Oh, you fool. Does it matter if I forgive you? We may all be hollow by next sunrise.”

“In which case this may be the last meaningful action you will have taken,” remarked Oscar.

“There are no meaningful actions in Lordran,” grunted the man. “Get up, there’s no need to grovel before a crestfallen warrior such as myself.” Oscar thought he seemed marginally less disdainful, so maybe he’d accomplished something. “Everyone comes to seek the bells, some find one, some the other, all die, there is no salvation here, whether or not you.... hm?” the Undead had made a gesture. “Oh, yes, there are two bells. One up above, in the cathedral; one down in...” he visibly cringed. “Blighttown. I would die any number of deaths before I set one foot in that place again. Full of pestilence and decay it is, the very ground a poisonous mire.”

“Thank you for warning us then,” said Oscar.

The crestfallen warrior shrugged. “Ring two bells and perhaps something will happen. Fate of the Undead and all that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Oh, surely you didn’t think that you were the only one to know the prophecy, the only one to come on pilgrimage?”

“By no means,” said Oscar. “But I’m willing to hope that we will succeed where the knights of Balder and Berenike failed.”

“Well,” the crestfallen warrior lowered his head, “be on your way, I’ve nothing more to tell you. Surely you’ll find what you seek soon enough, in these ruins. What you seek, though you may not know it...” he laughed again.

“Death?” offered Oscar. The man sneered.

“Hollowing, the final death. You will find it, yes. You will realize it would have been better just to sit down and let it take you.”

“I don’t agree with that,” said Oscar, “But sit all you like, there are plenty of benches. We’ll leave you to it.”

The man rolled his eyes and went silent.

They began to explore. The Undead splashed into a shallow, tiled pool in a courtyard behind the crestfallen warrior and stood looking curiously across at the shrine to, freckled with light falling through the ruined ceiling. A dry squawk attracted his attention, and he noticed the crow which had carried them perched on one of the still-standing walls close by.

“Did I ever introduce myself?” said Oscar to the Undead. “I don’t think I thought of it, in all the chaos, and I’m sorry. I am Oscar, a knight of Astora.” The Undead turned towards him and smiled. They had a nice smile, sunny and guileless. One tooth was missing. “Do you have a name?” They froze, then frowned as if trying hard to remember something.

“...I had a name.”

“You can speak? All this time I thought you were mute!”

“...I can. I... don’t remember.”

“That’s alright. What would you like me to call you?”

“Undead is fine.”

“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem much of a name.”

“I like it.”

“Alright.”

They walked through an archway to the left and he followed them up onto an overlook. Below them was an old graveyard, headstones tilted crazily, some drifting towards the edge of the slope. The path dove down among the graves, then sloped out of view behind the cliff.

“Do you remember anything?” he asked. The Undead looked out at the terraced ruins of the city, hazy in the distance.

“...Some. Woods, foraging. Cities. A friend.”

“Good. Maybe the rest will come back.”

They nodded.

“...Let’s not venture into the graveyard just yet,” said Oscar. “I’ve heard tales...”

The Undead nodded. They started back towards the bonfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Oscar is slightly high on adrenaline at the moment. The next chapter should be more chill. Maybe even some character development who knows.


	3. Prejudice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar and Undead explore Firelink Shrine and are confused by an ongoing feud between the only other two humans there.

There was a well near the bonfire, but it was dry. Considering that there was also a body hanging over the edge Oscar wouldn’t have wanted to drink from it anyway.

Undead poked the body curiously and a white-edged black sprite melted out through its ribcage to flicker in the air. They carefully scooped it into a bag.

“Humanity,” said Oscar. They nodded.

Oscar rolled the body to the cliff and kicked it off.

There was a path up the cliff ahead, but it was guarded by hollows, so they turned aside to explore the final section of the ruins. As they reached the doorway, Oscar saw with a start that they were not alone. A sturdy-looking man in cleric’s armor was standing near the left wall with his arms crossed. As they came towards him he started and reached for his mace. Oscar raised his hands nonthreateningly and the cleric relaxed.

“Oh—hello! I believe we are not acquainted. Are you a knight of Astora?”

“I am! My name is Oscar. It is good to meet another man in his right mind. Who are you?”

“Well met, good Sir. I am Petrus of Thorolund. If you don’t mind, may I request that your servant keep their distance?”

“Hm?” Oscar looked at Undead. “Oh! No, this is my travelling companion. They saved my life, actually. And if you object to their appearance, I don’t see why. They’re less likely to go hollow than I am.”

“Oh, dear me, I should have realized. But I meant no ill will by it. In such a corrupted land as this, we must do what we can to keep ourselves pure, must we not?” He turned from Oscar to Undead, and for the first time addressed them directly. “Here, take this. As a token of peace.”

He briefly came close enough to press something small into their hand, then retreated to a safe distance. Oscar looked over and saw a small, shiny penny lying in the palm of their gloved hand. They smiled, rubbed it and put it away carefully, but Oscar was offended on their behalf. Evidently the man was allergic to apologizing, and considered a copper coin of equal worth to a more formal apology. Then again, coins of any sort were rare in Lordran, and had sentimental significance as symbols of the outside world where such things still had worth. It would be an ungracious gesture outside of Lordran, but perhaps he meant well by it.

Before Oscar could decide if he should be offended on Undead’s behalf or not, Petrus continued.

“How about this. I have to await my companions here anyway, how would you two like it if I were to teach you some miracles?”

Oscar blinked.

“Miracles can be taught?”

“Oh, well, yes. Certain methods of calling upon the Gods in their power have been proven to work, and can be used reliably, if one has enough Faith. Are you a pilgrim on the Way of White?”

“I am.” So they did share the same religion, though Oscar had never seen a cleric so easy with their miracles. Astora viewed them as precious secrets that should be safeguarded, never used haphazardly. But he was far from home and if someone offered to teach him how to invoke healing on himself, hee wouldn’t turn it down.

Undead didn’t seem interested, and scouted around the area while he spoke with Petrus. He wasn’t sure what to make of the man. He was... cagey. He behaved in an open, friendly manner, but didn’t offer much information about himself. Well, Oscar would certainly trust him over a Hollow. Or probably the grouch back at the bonfire.

...Thinking about it more, actually, he wasn’t sure which one he’d be less likely to trust. He barely knew either of them.

The lesson was cut short when he heard Undead calling him from somewhere further inside the ruins. He followed the sound into a square room with two empty shafts which had probably once serviced a lift, and some stairs. Had they gone further up maybe?

“Undead?”

“Hey!”

He jumped. The sound, still slightly muffled, was coming from down one of the shafts. He ran to it.

“Did you fall down there?”

“Nope! Jumped!”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah! Come see!”

He cautiously lowered himself and dropped down the dark shaft, landing with a grunt on solid ground. From here he could see that there was a narrow passageway in the rock, leading out to a grassy open space. He cautiously felt his way out and found Undead grinning at him over a pile of... stuff. There were several weather-worn chests lying around, flung open. They looked older than their friends out at the shrine were likely to be, so Oscar disregarded his first concern, that they were raiding someone’s private stash.

“Oh, what did you find?”

It turned out to be a morningstar, several bits of bone wrapped up in rag, a tattered talisman, some nasty-looking occult red gems, and a collection of Undead-hunting talismans. Oscar picked up one of the latter and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Lloyd’s Talismans. They prevent Undead from healing, within a short range. I’ve seen a few, but it’s usually only the Cleric Knights who have them.” He put down the talisman. “I always did feel they were... barbaric.” Unfair. Of course, the Cleric Knights would say that the ability to heal injuries instantaneously was unfair, and they were only leveling the playing field. Which would make sense if the Undead they so often found themselves fighting weren’t scared townspeople with little to no combat knowledge.  “I suppose they might be useful.”

“What’re these?” the Undead held out one of the bones, and he held it in his hand, sliding his visor up to see it better. No, just a simple fragment of bone, dry and fragile. It looked like it might crumble into dust if handled roughly. Why was it so fragile?... there was a faint aura of magic around it, he thought, but he couldn’t tell what or why.

“No idea. I think it’s magic? I’m not skilled in that area.”

Undead nodded, then fished a round object out of a hip pouch and shook it inquisitively. Something liquid sloshed inside. Oscar grabbed their arm and stopped it with an exclamation.

“Firebomb! Firebomb. Don’t throw that around here. You can throw it at enemies and engulf them in flame.”

Undead withdrew the firebomb and looked at it appreciatively.

They divided the rest of the items between them; both had some room in their belt pouches and Undead carried the morningstar over their shoulder as they leapt down onto the lower pathway they’d seen earlier, at the edge of the graveyard. Almost immediately a dry clicking sound came from the ground further below, and turning, Oscar saw the bones that had lain scattered across the ground drawing themselves together and assembling into two full skeletons. He stopped breathing for a moment, then swung his shield around, thinking grimly that it would take a bit more than animated skeletons to truly startle him. He’d jumped into a dragon’s mouth, once upon a time. It wasn’t an experience he’d like to repeat, but he’d lived. And he’d seen a few things.

“Careful,” he said to Undead. “Use the morningstar, maybe it’s heavy enough to break them apart.” A firebomb zipped past him and burst, engulfing the closest skeleton in flame. “Or you could do that.” Another firebomb zipped past and he heard them give a maniacal cackle. It looked like he had a pyromaniac on his hands. Well, not like he could blame them. It was a special kind of satisfying to incinerate your enemies into useless cinders. “Alright, hold up, they’re close!” He ran forward and shield-bashed the closest skeleton before it could go through with its swing. Both skeletons held scimitars, which looked to be in fairly good shape, but they swung them clumsily, taking several seconds to wind up for a spinning move and telegraphing their intent far in advance. Still. React a little too slowly, and he didn’t like to think about taking one of those acrobatic downswipes to the face.

He hacked away at the skeleton, keeping his shield between them, and heard a sharp crack, then the skeleton slowly disassembled and fell to the ground. He waited to see if it would reassemble, but it didn’t look like it. The skull rolled off, bounced off a few headstones and sailed over the cliff and into the sunsets. A few paces behind him, Undead had knocked the second skeleton apart and was watching it come back together. As it raised its sword they knocked it down again, and this time it lay still.

“Good job.”

They smiled.

“How come it was easier for you?” they asked him as they started up the stairs to the bonfire. Oscar drew his sword and held it in his hands, seeing his helmet and a strip of sky reflected in the polished surface.

“It carries a powerful blessing, and strikes hard against all the Undead.”

He took a moment to admire the fine craftmanship and the ornamental curve of the hilt.

“It was a gift, made by one of the finest smiths in Astora. Perfectly balanced.” He removed his left hand from under the blade and let it float from his right palm. Undead ducked down to look at the blade from the side.

“Oh wow.”

“Do you want to hold it?”

They stretched out their hands and took it carefully. Their face changed; they held it as if it were unexpectedly heavy, hefted it a moment then handed it back to him.

“How do you find it?”

“I’m... not sure.”

“It takes great Faith to wield such a weapon effectively.”

“Ah. Well that... explains a bit. But I’m glad you have such a weapon.”

Oscar sheathed his sword.

“What about your sword? Have you carried it with you, or did you find it at the Asylum?”

Undead drew their scimitar and looked at it, then handed it to him. It was tip-heavy, with a thick, curved blade, for slashing. Lent itself well to the circular motions he’d seen the skeletons struggling to replicate, he thought.

“I found it. But it reminds me of something. Feels... familiar. I had such a sword once.”

“Good.” Oscar took a few steps back and gave an experimental slash, then spun the sword around in his hand. “Not what I’m used to, but a fine weapon by its own merits.” He returned it, smiling. “I’m glad you have such a weapon.” Undead grinned. “Shall we head back to the fire?”

It was getting late, and the feeble light was fading from beyond the clouds. A chill breeze was blowing, and Oscar sat close to the fire.  
It was strange, it didn’t consume fuel, but the flames danced above a pile of ash and bones. He wondered whose bones they were, and how the fires were kindled.  
Its presence was comforting. Perhaps it was because of the brand on his body, but something about it felt like home. A little space of warm and comfort in the growing dark.

There was a faint jingling sound, and the Crestfallen Warrior slumped down on the opposite side of the fire. He seemed to agree. Oscar looked elsewhere.

Beside him, Undead took out the scrap of Humanity they’d found and looked at it.

“Do you want to use it?” asked Oscar. “I know there’s a way to restore your appearance using the bonfire, though I’m not quite sure how.”

“Consume the humanity, then offer it to the flame in exchange for a brief reversal of the curse,” murmured the Crestfallen Warrior without looking at them.

“Oh. Thank you.” said Oscar. The Warrior grunted.

Undead looked at the small dark thing—it looked like a rip in space, a detached shadow floating their hand—and then shook their head and put it away.

“Are you sure?” asked Oscar.

“No. Save it.”

“You’ll be alright?”

They nodded.

Oscar didn’t see the logic in this but decided not to pressure them. They were certainly stronger than he was, the fight with the demon had proved that. Maybe they would be alright as they were, for a while longer. But it couldn’t be comfortable. He’d never experienced it himself, but he’d heard that as the curse grew, twisting one’s flesh, it became harder to think; the cursed became more animalistic, acting through instinct, often as if a sleepwalker, doing things they would never have considered when in their right minds. This was the path to finally going Hollow. But Undead seemed to have adapted to living with the curse and was able to resist some of its effects. It intrigued him.

He looked up at the sound of movement. Petrus approached the fire, then stopped, glaring at the Crestfallen Warrior, who scratched his nose and stretched, unperturbed.

“Oh, you’re here.”

“Yep,” said the Warrior.

“Go away. You were here yesterday.”

“I live here.”

“Is there a problem?” said Oscar. “We can move over..” there was plenty of room at the bonfire. Petrus shook his head.

“No, no. Don’t worry yourselves.”

“He just doesn’t like me,” said the Crestfallen Warrior, patting Petrus’ foot. Petrus removed it, taking a step backwards.

“You are the most unpleasant man I’ve ever met.” The Warrior shrugged. “And utterly without remorse.” The Warrior sighed.

“I think you’re just a common hypocrite. But, who knows, maybe not. To be quite honest, I could care less. I don’t have the energy for—”

“Oh, now, really! You have no respect for anyone or anything!”

“Here we goooo.”

“—Prejudice against the Way of White, that’s all; purely because you’re _allergic_ to law and _order,”_

The Crestfallen Warrior turned to Oscar and talked over Petrus.

“I suppose you too are a pilgrim on the lofty Way of Waffles?”

“The... Way of White?” said Oscar.

“The Way of Whales?”

“The W—” Oscar stopped himself. “Haha, very funny. Yes.”

“Of course you are. Well I’m sorry.”

He stood up with a grunt and set off slowly towards one of the arches.

“Where are you going?” said Petrus suspiciously.

“Oh, nowhere,” said the Warrior. “Just going to go piss in the pool.”

“DO NOT piss in the sacred pool of Fina!”

“I’m going to go piss in the sacred pool of Fina. Adieu my friends, I shall return.”

There was a distant tinkling noise. Petrus stomped off, muttering to himself. Oscar and Undead looked at each other in confusion.

“Does this make sense to you?” said Undead. Oscar shook his head. “Good. I don’t get it either.”

“Yeah, no, this is just weird.”

There was a sudden loud splash, followed by the sound of Petrus laughing and a single monotone “Fuck.” Petrus reappeared, still laughing, and flopped down beside the bonfire. Crestfallen Warrior appeared a few moments later, dripping wet, hair slicked down over his forehead. “That was low,” he said, then retreated to his bench and sat there shivering in a bored sort of manner.

“Are you alright?” said Oscar. He chuckled.

“Oh yes perfectly fine. Not like freezing to death will do much to me. Or maybe it will, who knows. If this is the way I hollow then I was not displeased to meet you.”

Well that was... not unfriendly. “...Just come down to the fire.”

“Hmm, no, I’m fine.”

“He’s fine,” said Petrus, beginning the tedious task of removing his armor. Oscar decided to do the same. Whatever bizarre feud these two had, he didn’t think they were a threat to him directly. But it seemed to him a special kind of stupid to carry on a petty rivalry with your only companion in such a place.

Undead sat cross-legged, staring into the fire, while he curled up on the ground, trying to find a place close enough to the fire to stay warm but not be burned. It had been a long day and the exhaustion was starting to catch up to him.

“Don’t you sleep?” he asked Undead, who was still staring into the fire. They shook their head.

Hollows didn’t sleep. They’d probably stopped feeling the need while in the Asylum, spending days on end in a kind of trance... it was amazing they hadn’t hollowed. They were incredibly strong.

“Alright, well, I do. I’ll see you in the morning.” They nodded to him and he wrapped his arms around himself and tried to sleep.

He’d had a blanket, but he left it, along with all his other supplies, with his horse. It was far far behind them, at one of the guard posts of the Asylum. The cold wind seeped steadily through the back of his arming jacket. He curled tighter into a ball.

He sank into a kind of half-consciousness, some part of him still aware that he was very cold and that his back ached in the wind and preoccupied with keeping close to the fire. Somewhere there was movement.

“Cold?” said Undead. He grunted. Then he felt something less cold than the air interpose itself between him and the draft from the cliff. Undead wrapped their arms around him and he hugged them to him.

“Oh. Thank you.”

It wasn’t a great change in warmth, but having a wind shield made a great difference. He was deeply asleep within a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we see part of the reason why our morose friend wasn’t predisposed to like Oscar. Also why he and Petrus chill in completely different parts of Firelink Shrine, despite initially being the only people there.
> 
> And here's a response to a  pertinent comment on FFN, which I think I'll post here too to explain my headcanons on bonfires in this story: 
> 
> Freezee: Thank you for your comments! Um, bonfires do heal, but I have kind of a complicated headcanon on that. I decided at some point that the reason enemies you’ve already killed reappear after you’ve rested at a bonfire is because ‘resting’ means you stay there for like 8 hours and take a snooze, and during that time, all the enemies respawn from their own bonfires and find their way back to where they were, and you gradually heal. The bonfire does cause accelerated healing but you have to sit there for a few hours to get the full effect, it isn’t instantaneous (it’s portrayed as such in the game itself because obviously you’re not going to watch your character sleep for 8 hours that would be horrible game design. But I don’t consider this a reason for me to not have this headcanon.) 
> 
> I mean it’s not perfect, I’m not even sure if it’s lore-accurate (DO the fully Hollow respawn like a non-hollowed Undead? COMPLICATED QUESTION) but that’s what I’ve got so far.  
> So, yeah! Oscar was healed by the bonfire, but only a little bit, because he didn’t stay there very long and in this AU it takes some time to fully work.

**Author's Note:**

> It is three minutes until one in the morning


End file.
